Between Then and Now
by snuggalong
Summary: Dean thinks that Sam's nightmares are still about Jess. Sam's not about to tell him otherwise. Because that means telling him what they really are about; telling him the truth of what went down that Wednesday in Broward County, and the truth of exactly how scared he is of how fast the day Dean's deal is to come due is approaching. -tag to 3x11, 'Mystery Spot,' and afterwards-


**Between Then and Now****  
**

* * *

Surprisingly, it isn't the deaths he has nightmares about, though his subconscious has over a hundred of them to choose from.

No, after living his brother's death for (_almost)_ real that many times, any nightmare his mind could muster would be a paltry, pale comparison.

Instead, he dreams about the afterwards.

How he never stopped climbing into the wrong side of the Impala, never stopped sitting there for minutes on end until he remembered just why Dean wasn't getting in.

How he never stopped making the mistake of requesting a room with two beds, or a table for two, only the clerk's or the server's raised eyebrows bringing him back to himself. Sometimes, though, he didn't change it. Sometimes he let himself pretend.

How sometimes, researching a case, he'd look up, the exclamation of discovery on his lips—_Dean, I found something!_—only to falter, the words unsaid to anyone but emptiness.

The driving alone, the working alone, the sleeping alone, the waking up, _alone_, with nothing but his own breathing to break the stifling silence.

_And oh, the _silence_._

He never realized just how loud Dean made his life until he was gone. No music, no awful singing—the one time 'Heat of the Moment' came on the radio, Sam pulled over and was violently sick on the edge of some Iowa cornfield, and he never listened to the radio after that. No crappy pick-up lines. No one to argue with. No one to bounce ideas off of. No one to lend a hand and some understanding words—because no matter how much Dean hated the 'chick-flick' moments, he always _understood._

But the one thing he doesn't understand is how much the absence of him breaks—broke—Sam down, because Sam hasn't let him.

He never told him about that Wednesday, that final Wednesday in Broward County. The trickster told him that he was trying to teach him a lesson, about what life would be like without Dean—and oh, Sam learned.

He's determined not to let it happen again. Dean is just as determined on the opposite.

Sam wonders that if Dean knew about that Wednesday, if he had known before about what his leaving would do, if he ever would have made the deal.

Some part of him knows he would have. Because Dean is like that—he'd rather die in a world he knew his brother would live on in, than live in one where he was dead and gone.

He can't seem to understand that Sam might feel the same way.

So Sam keeps dreaming of afterwards, and tries not to dwell on how unless he finds a way out, back then is going to become his reality.

* * *

He wakes up. He no longer gasps for air, looks around wild-eyed, chokes out words—Dean, Bobby, _forgivemeplease_—no longer does anything other than wake, sit upright, stare at the wall until he can calm his raging heart.

Somehow, still, Dean always knows.

"Sam?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks at him. "Yeah?"

His voice is steady. His eyes are calm. He is fooling no one, least of all himself.

"You alright?"

"Fine," he replies shortly, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"Sam…"

"Dean."

His tone is a warning._ Let it go._ Today, though, Dean is stubborn—but when is he ever not?

"No, Sam, I'm not gonna let it go. That's three times this week. You're losin' sleep, losin' efficiency—"

_Hiding behind professionalism like always, who do you think you're fooling, Dean—_

"—and more than that, you're hurtin' and I don't know why, so I'm not goin' to just _let it go_. Not again."

Dean is standing in front of him, stance agitated and concerned at the same time, and Sam can only eye him resignedly. Dean eyes him right back.

"…is it the Mystery Spot?"

Sam only hesitates for a second before he shakes his head. Technically, it's not—it's about what came after.

He can practically see the gears churning in Dean's head, trying to come up with some sort of reasoning, but Sam knows he'll never come to the right conclusion. He's too blinded by his sense of_ righteousness_—that Sam is alive, and they have one more year together—_less, much less—_and Sam will keep living even after he's gone, if they don't find a way out, so therefore he was right to do what he did.

He thinks Sam will move on.

Sam could hit him for being so immensely _stupid_.

Dean finally tilts his head, and almost cautiously—for him, anyhow—asks, "Is it…Jess?"

Sam is thrown by the question. He blinks. In that moment he realizes he hasn't had a nightmare about Jess since the day he woke up in Bobby's house. Not once. He's had other issues, other demons, for his subconscious to drag up.

_Because some part of him already knew what Dean had done._

But Dean takes his silence as a yes, and the—well, it's not really pity, Dean doesn't really do pity, but Sam doesn't have another word for it—the pity in his eyes is so raw and painful that Sam looks down.

"…you really loved her, didn't you?"

It's not the first time Dean's asked that question, but Sam knows he doesn't really know what else to ask. Fidelity and permanency have—thus far—always been foreign concepts to Dean.

"I was going to marry her," Sam says, somehow keeping the irritation out of his voice. "So yeah, Dean, I think I _really loved her_."

He throws back the comforter and climbs out of bed, heads for the shower without looking back. Let Dean think he wants to be alone with his memories, when all he wants to do is turn around and punch him.

He's done. He is done with his brother, his stupid, idiot brother who doesn't _understand_ how Sam is falling apart, how his seams are slowly coming undone as the year winds down and they are no closer to an answer, a way out.

He wonders, between now and then, how much more it will take for him to break down, and between then and now, when he finally stopped caring if he would.

* * *

In case it wasn't obvious, I've joined the _Supernatural _fandom. Hehe. I'm currently only on season four, but hey! Y'don't need seasons five through seven to write a good ol' angsty tag to 'Mystery Spot!' Constructive criticism and such definitely welcome since this is my first fanfiction in the fandom.

Anyone looking here for info about my other stories, I'm sorry, I am, but the Gundam muse is just...well, comatose is a good word for it at the moment. I keep trying; let's hope I hit a breakthrough soon. I also - _finally _- got a job the other day, so that's gonna take up a decent chunk of my writing time, especially once school starts next month. Anyhow, I'll shut up now. Later.


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